


Through April Showers, Come Flowers

by TechnicolourRomantics



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: 30 Day Duran Duran Fic Challenge, 30 Days of Writing, M/M, More Than 30 Days, Not Actually 30 Stories Though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourRomantics/pseuds/TechnicolourRomantics
Summary: Gloom weighs the world down right now, but Duran Duran are some pretty flowers that grow in  the rain. Four decades and strong.My part in the 30 Day DD Fic Challenge for April. A beautiful thing @allmywill created, so us Duranies can stick together.
Relationships: John Taylor/Roger Taylor (Duran Duran), Nick Rhodes/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 17





	1. Sound of Thunder, Sound of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This thing: 
> 
> 1\. Probably is gonna stretch out to May as merely a fun prompt collection as I take time to write.
> 
> 2\. Won't have 30 stories as I'll merge some prompts for the fun of it 😊
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy, Duranies! We have each other's backs. 💫💚

**Prompt 1 & 2: **Your favorite pairing & The early days 

**Pairing:** John/Nick

\------

_**1977** _

The shooting dagger view that was flung Nick’s way failed to pierce his sweet bubble, rapt in how close he was, yet again, to tasting the victory.

“Bloody hell, Nick! You’ll just win again!” 

The thought ran off as soon as it came, as the board was flung in an unceremonious tumble down the rug and Nick ducked away, while Nigel’s arms flew to his chest, huffing at the repeat offender. The accompanying cards scattered, sheepishly fluttering down to the ground.

Having him lose all his board games in his _own fucking room!_ It was pathetic, but ever so humiliating.

“Nigel, it’s a game.” but the smugness was betrayed in his tilted smirk, earning even more thunder. 

“Easy for you to say. Genius. Hotshot. Mastermind.”

“Okay, sorry, we’ll do something else...” he bit back the childish sarcasm that indicated he really wasn’t.

Unyielding gloom in Nigel’s eyes matched closely with the patch of the darkening sky off to the west through the window. There was an irritating telephone pole in the way, and the reflection of a well-used warm lightbulb of his haven in the glass, but the telltale distant streams of lightning against the grey were visible. 

“There’s a storm there. Heading this way, I think.” Nick sought out the view.

“Diamond.” the other boy muttered, still looking down at his cast, no longer nearly as painful, but now an itchy, scratchy, left-legged mass he had to lug around if he wanted to move. He was starting to hate it, horribly, and it showed.

“I said I apologise!” 

“Sure.”

_Obstinacy’s flattering, Nigel! Don’t be an arse._ _Shut up, Nick’s being one. No, you are._

He knew he was being a right prick, and the sharp telltale rattle of pelting drops on the rusted gutter outside his room broke him away from his infighting, turning to look at Nick with a half-apology written somewhere vaguely around his eyes.

  
  


And the coming of the rain brought a hush outside by the kitchen phone too, Jean on the phone with Sylvia, the conversation dry, but jovial over her son living off the Taylor’s lately. 

“They're right for one another though, Nigel's stopped hiding behind the curtains now.”  
  


An amused noise came through. “You won’t be so sure when he comes home blond one day, Nick’s been fantasising about his own for weeks. You’ll be begging the boy to stay in his room.”

“Surely not! I’m sure it’d be suited.” she assured, though narrowed warning eyes shot off down the corridor, inwardly shuddering at the thought of her dear son’s head doused in peroxide.

Thunder came from above.

“Ah, there it is, the darned storm the telly was buzzing over at noon… I’ll be off then.”

“Wouldn’t want the wires out with us on here.” 

“Quite right. Good-bye, Sylvia! Come over for tea tomorrow, will you? You can bring Nicholas home.” Laughing, she put the phone down swiftly, right as another stroke of thunder rumbled nearby.

Her padded slippers clipped the tile grout as she headed off to the kitchen to prepare some tea. 

Biscuits, some sandwiches for the two boys. They'd be tired with games all day, or muffled Bowie through the walls even when she asked Nigel to put the volume down. Same situation right now, most probably.

  
  


But save for the rain, all was now quiet in the bedroom far down the hall. 

“Come _on_ , Nigel.” the cracking voice, smothered against his neck, pulled.

The scene had changed considerably, two boys now one hushed huddle as the smaller had decided to clamber onto Nigel’s lap, without a word.

Nigel hadn’t asked for it, but neither had he pushed the other boy away. 

“...Don’t like it when you’re sad.” the older boy could feel the pout on his neck. His heart did that pesky thing of being affected by it.

It was hard to stay sulking when those now familiar lips were up against him, newly brunet hair nested underneath his jaw and little nose poking into him. Nick held tight and inhaled his collar, taking in the faint blend of musky perfume from the black neck ruffles of the blouse that told of its age and discovery from all the way at the bottom of his mother’s drawer. 

A week had passed. A week since they had held each other. When Nigel had let Nicholas in, after he asked so sweetly with heart, and affirmed it with his tongue.

And it was his Achilles heel now, with his corners of his mouth turning up as the other boy pushed even closer, curling traitorously as he tried hard to fight his lips down.

_Let me sulk, Nick!_

_No, that’s_ my _thing._ That delicately headstrong mouth said, journeying up closer to Nigel’s. 

“You can’t just snog me now when I’m upset!” exasperated, but undeniably enjoying it.

“Why not?” Nick prodded, slipping his mouth onto the other boy's so he couldn't counter him anyway.

Cockily, with the air of seventeen, Nigel sidled into what he called 'familiar territory', pressing closer as their mouths came up to feel their sweet other. The softness, dancing with warmer swiping hands skimming up the silkiness of their blouses' fabric.

What was petulance, when that mouth was on his?

Nick maneuvered himself and pressed slightly deeper into the feel of Nigel's thigh, placing them in a closeness they both knew, that if the door opened, would be slightly compromising. 

It was great fun. 

What was frustration, when Nick's body was so close to his?

Sneaky, cheeky, sly eyes they had started to gift one another came during moments like these. Nigel affirming the things that they both wanted, all too easy to cast his citric mood aside when such feelings came into spotlight.

Things that would start with unbuttoning each other's blouses, and taking in whatever was underneath. 

And as they had come to realise, the otherwise hidden skin meant feelings. Feelings they thought only girls could give them, a wonderful blood rush at the mere thought of one another.

Exploring new opportunities. Curiosities...

_Ka-bang!_

Heightened senses, they both leapt at the overhead thunder, off Nigel's bed for what felt like a metre into the air, colliding back down together with their half unbuttoned shirts.

_Dammit!_ Mood ruined.

Laughing and pained, the sudden pressing skin contact was undoubtedly lovely, but both their bony frames stabbed on one another a bit too hard.

“Ow! Nigel, your _bone_!”

“Yours too!” he shot back, rubbing his side tenderly.

Their hips winced in protest but they knew it was absolutely worth it. Every moment like this was absolutely worth it. 

Just as the boys turned towards each other again, 

“Nigel! Nicholas! Tea’s ready!” was the muffled call that reached them. 

_Not again!_ Could they ever mess around in peace?

Though, it _was_ food.

_Besides Nick, another of life’s necessities!_

So naturally, _run!_

_Wait. Shit, the leg!_

Rushing across the hall, as fast as an impeded leg could go, Nick helped the gangly, taller boy down the multi level step at the end of the corridor...

...where said boy then tripped over his other, working, leg and nearly dragged both of them crashing onto the tiles.

"Nigel! Need I teach you how to use the stairs again?" the jibe was wilfully ignored as they giggled madly, Jean shaking her head at the spectacle and muttering something about two pairs of broken legs.

Nigel managed a simultaneous snicker and wheeze, sounding just like a horse and setting them both off again as he hobbled too far left, nearly hitting another post. 

“Boys! Behave!” she ordered uselessly, voice drowned out by the thunder now overhead. 

And they could only continue to laugh as they saw her mouth move with but no words coming out, smothering their last few giggles as Nick guided them both to the Taylors’ dining table while grasping onto Nigel to make sure he was all okay.

_Just playing caretaker,_ the adorable, blazing, little lie he often told himself. 

A wiry arm that he held close onto, and a warm touch back he could boldly proclaim to be _loving._

Nick again stole a glance, a split second glance, into the eyes of the boy beside him. Nigel Taylor’s eyes crinkled back at him. _Loving,_ they confirmed.

He wrinkled his nose back. It was fun. They were boys. 

This. This was for them.

Scrumptious tea and everything else attached.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognise the boys? 😆❤ I love them so much, had to bring them back.


	2. Out of Oktober Orbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surreal at times, I tried my hand at blurring the line between lyric, song and reality.

**Prompt 3:** (based on) Your favourite song

**Pairing:** John/Simon 

\----

_**1983** _

Tossing and turning, the heat seared. The hot, blinding headache flashed through John’s mind, a headache he felt, but also, did not. He had already given himself to sleep, but he would get no rest. It dragged him instead, by the feet, into the sea of dreaming black.

Click. Stumbling and tripping, legs walking in circles and dignity nowhere in sight, twenty-three was a new taste in his mouth, along with remnants of birthday cake washed down with beer. The experienced man he now was, far, far away from boyhood, aware of all that the Universe held - to the moon and back. 

Slurring and taking it all. Stooping down as far his back could hunch and taking it all in from that little table in the corner. 

The biggest inhale of the stuff, his pals, his powdered engines that let him soar across the world. White fireworks, in his body, heart and mind, that permeated all through him deliciously, and treated him to the most wonderful surprise. 

And as quick as it came, he was suddenly pushed back. His arms were yanked out of their sockets and he slammed hard downward into the gritty surface of the concrete. Or reality. Same thing. It collapsed on itself until it was just him alone, the cold ground of the dressing room and sudden silence.

  
  


Click. The dawning light slapped him in the face, waking him up in a bed that smelt of a stranger. No, smelt of Simon. A hotel room, devoid of human life and space filled up by the low whirring of the aircon.

Creeping rays through the window assaulted his vision, rectangles of orange on the walls that grew in size, faster than he could catch up with, faster than the regional freight that made its trip past the hotel building overnight. The sun came up before he was ready for the vices of the coming day, even when it took the same fiery course it did every other day of his life. Sunlight come barging in without permission, never knocking his door. 

Linen bunched up around his unclad body was imprinted with the telling scent of the previous night. Accompanied by burning freeze frames in his mind, awarding him ghosting replays of the heated hand moving against him, or everything else ceasing to matter when his old friend gave him the pleasure. Gave him the mere memory that tauntingly swirled dark around him now on the empty bed. 

  
  


Click. Another memory joined the gripping headache that continued to pound, as he clutched at his head, vision swimming and dizzy. It clouded his view, barely making out the ceiling of the car, surrounding windows fogged up, peeling edges of the covering having seen much better days.

He barely registered it when the man beside his crumpled clothing pulled him in for a kiss, noticing only their shared cocktailed lips and the mane of roughened blond hair tangled in his tugging fingers. 

He only really felt it when the other body straightened up and slipped across the frayed backseat cushions, out the door which creaked as it opened, but not before the man flashed the smile. 

The smile, the pretense that assured he would be back. A pathetic facade to the sane, a Houdini act to the inebriated. John smiled back, alone, looking out the windows he couldn’t see through. Head lolling, the bottle assured him that was surely, _most certainly_ , a step ahead of the killing jar.

  
  


Click. He was now on the shore. Sharp sand froze beneath his feet, nipping at his soles as he crumbled to his knees, sprawled on all fours, his mind a persistent spectator amongst the howling winds, awaiting his damning freefall.

He rose up again and ran, wherever the shoreline would bring him, dropping dozens of footsteps on the sand. They were, of course, meaningless, as those threading footfalls so swiftly washed out by the tide would lead him nowhere. 

Simon was already gone.

Click. He fell again, to the sand, tears streaming and the soft, desperate calls croakily rising out of him. His whisper, treading on eggshells and cotton cloud, 

"Simon…" he pleaded, broken. 

"Simon… Simon…"

When it led him nowhere, down the flowery garden path, floodgates opened and he unleashed the agonising yell that had bubbled inside him, piercing in waves. A dry scream that fired across the deserted shore with the air of a rippling gunshot.

All to be cast away cruelly by the roaring winds, a distant thunderous rumble that intercepted his pleas and left him held in its cold, foreshore grip.

  
  


Click. There was a switch flipped, leaving him in a field, looking out to an endless stretch of withered, tired grass. The enveloping smallness the wheat left him to feel, very much alive in their sway to the melody of the breeze. Wind still sailed through, ruffling the clinging curls in his hair, dead-yellow roots fluttering against the navy sky. 

Gaudy blue sky that seemed false, almost dreamlike, backdropped him while he stood ground. Arms crossed, stance up, chin pointing out yonder. The lightning struck closer and closer, but he could not bring himself to run for shelter. His bravado fed him, it would ruin him, but for now it kept him standing. 

Flashes struck the powerlines, jagged and ruthless in their path as they played along the wires. A strike. Another strike. And a third, bright against the enveloping cobalt, that caught his eyes and flung his head to the field off east. 

A momentary silhouette in the blazing light, a tall, confident shadow he swore he knew. 

One he would never catch. One moment there, gone the next.

It would always be a mirage, a trick of the light.

  
  


"John?... John?" All that greeted him were soft cries, a hiccup and a sobbing cough as Simon moved closer towards him on the bed.

He placed an arm around the trembling body against him, turbulently thrown around in the dream, pulling John close and using the soft feel of their skin to medicate. His signals danced in tango around them, assuring John he was there.

Simon was next to him, Simon wanted him close. 

Though he himself knew better, that it would eventually become reality. Sans fanfare and theatrics, but the route they would take in real-life, flesh and blood, would have the same ending. A path littered with smatterings of coke, the reek of alcohol and endless devastation. 

And John would veer off-course. Round and round. Faster and faster. Spinning increasingly out of control while he could only helplessly stand and watch.

Simon knew he would eventually be spun out of John’s orbit, and he would be torn at him crying and clawing his way through the fog to have Simon back, desperately trying to access the man he just could not reach.

Guilt. Helplessness. Lump in the throat while John drifted back to sleep intertwined in his arms.

Simon created the words of the song in one night, but John would live through it every night. And every day.

Again, again, and again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Secret Oktober, the famous B-side that laid bare that true state of the band in 1983. Haunting, urgent and wrapped up in a synthesizer cloud of uneasiness, my favourite song of theirs. 💚🖤


	3. Notoriously Driving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me being awfully behind! 💙 The spark for this collection has been there, but I guess I can only write whenever I see fit. 😆

**Prompt 4:** Onstage Antics

**Pairing:** John/Simon

\----

**_1987, Strange Behaviour Tour_ **

All was dark. 

The stage lights lingered on the keyboardist to the back, leaving the frontal stage lined with shadow. In the dark, came the crawling anticipation over the man who would come forth.

Then the sign flickered on and glowed coolly, the neon a vivid blue, and glaring "No Vacancy" scarlet complementing it.

Blue light flooded downward, bathing and feeding the audience as they quickly ate it up.

A cutting silhouette sliced through the teal haze, blended poignantly with the icy shock, before the sparse light came to rest on them.

The crowd roared.

Sweeping majestically, Simon strode forward in the beige overcoat, power accentuated with the sailor's cap, luxuriously embroidered and perched oh so perfectly atop his head.

He glided across the stage amidst the voluminous folds, dripping charisma and confidence on the platform everywhere he went. The singer never would slip on the substance though, far from his nature while he was seducing the crowd with his coveted Lynchian tune. 

Propping a leg down from the cafe chair which knew his secrets, he raked the audience with his eyes amidst his sensuous speech. 

There was a buzz that fuelled him.

The buzz emanating off the audience, off their heads so perfectly. The buzz of the lighting. The buzz of the thrumming bassline strutting up to curl around his piercing vocals. 

His play partner.

John came swaying along to his creation in musical time, gold tassels shaking on his own coat as he ramped up the dark throbbing sensation, crossing the stage with one goal in mind.

Simon. 

The man, the performer, the centre of the spotlight he could twist around to share. 

Right toward him, Simon was seemingly still wrapped in his act, taking no notice that John had come close into his bubble, lest for a quick flick of his eye to right. With each step closer, they lived off the roar that grew from the crowd, magnetic in their actions.

The brunet slid further into his space, hips angling up into his bass, shimmying closely and keeping their eyes locked in challenge. 

Flurries of signals flew about them, knowing just where and when to move themselves. Unspoken decisions to press to the left, and then to the right. In harmony and in jest, but in all, the adult flirt. 

The spotlight cut against dark strips on their hips, grinding the thick air between them together. 

A shameless mimicry of the women in the car-park.

With much more on, for now.

Simon turned from their little capsule, stealing quick survey of his crowd, but felt a quick swoop behind him. He whirled around to be greeted with his hat now perched among the right among the curls on John’s head.

Gold thread adorned with a dramatic twirl and infuriatingly cheeky shit-eating grin.

_John, you dick'ead!_ He smothered the spark of childish laughter that arose, hesitant to break character, and settled instead for the smirk that danced between playful and warning. More so the latter.

_You’ll pay for that._

The tease in John’s eyes told him he knew, and wanted. It was all deliberate. Of course it was.

_Make me._

He raised his brows and flashed the signature pout, but the glare thrown at him in Simon’s eyes shot through his chest, dropping his hand and bumming a note or two.

It was fine though, screaming theatre and all.

Simon _would_ get the hat back, and playing along with John’s challenge was only expected of him, his role. 

The billowing trench coat fluttered as the singer stepped closer, drawing out his voice from deep out his heart, oozing the full-bellied cry, the teasing subtexts. 

They were pushing one another on, and so was the thrill of a watching audience. Energy between them traversed the theatre and was given a fine coat of lustful cloud, kicked up under their squeaking heels.

Both lapping up the attention, while the audience lapped _them_ up.

It was Simon’s slinky chase for John across the stage, both literally and figuratively, striped by the lights. 

Dodge here, dodge there, as much as he could dip away from Simon’s grasping hands without his fingers slipping off the strings. Johnny loved to push his buttons further.

Slipping into part again, Simon retreated back, ocarina in hand, and started playing out the sweet melody that weaved its way through the fire of the music.

The eerie aqua-lit wash set upon his finish, roving to John as quickly he yanked the hat back, fitted again like a crown onto his rightful head and none the wiser. 

John stuck his tongue out.

_I’d keep it in your mouth if I were you._ Simon wordlessly raised his brow.

_Why should I?_ Shoving another smirk in his direction.

Of course really, he didn't mind. He was willing to return it, to see that fine cap continue to grace Simon's head amidst their inevitable interlude later on. 

Simon would all too easily adopt the part, performing for his waiting audience of one - wearing the poised navy cap, and the poised navy cap only.

And John, so effortlessly would perform for _him_.

Against the glowing neon sign outside their motel window, scarlet “No Vacancy” blinking on and off.


	4. Nigel On Film

**Prompt 5:** Nigel becoming John

\----

**_2015_ **

The film was dry between his fingers, studying the age carefully while his large stature cast a shadow over the photographs themselves. It was just one of those nights, sat cross-legged in sweats on his carpeted living room floor, where he brought out the black matted box, labelled with the faded hand of a pen brand now defunct on the yellowed paper.

He looked down at all that was scattered around him. Glimpses of a boy, eternally encased in the gelatin and crystal. 

And the man he thought he became, but the boy he still really was. 

Larger pictures, smaller pictures, some torn, some untouched for decades.

A blurry shot of a lanky figure in tights and murky green blouse hunched over his bass, eyes looking the other way, feigning concentration but in reality had been embarrassed of his playing pose.

Nigel.

Drifting to the postcard below, a boy fitted with a hat and the shine of a crimson suit, boxy frame puffed out and face confidently angled, with a furrowed brow, away into the greenery with his friend in black tux beside. 

John.

A large rectangular card caught his eye. There, the boy leaned closely toward another boy, both dressed in a shock of black hair and oversized, unkempt shirts half tucked into their too short leathers. 

Nigel.

Another one, this time a reddish low-angle of a man towering on stage with his bass with wild multi-coloured, multi patterned and multi textured shirt that mirrored his window drapes and was now slipping off. His unfocused eyes were blown wide to the sea of adulation that no doubt greeted him outside of the frame.

John.

Soon enough, he found more and more shots of the latter, and less of Nigel. 

The stark switch, seemingly overnight, that had been captured out in the film he held now.

Feeling around another dusty polaroid of him grinning madly while lost in a satin cloak in some unknown room in some unknown town, he was reminded of how it used to worry him then, that there were moments where he couldn’t shake Nigel off. That the gawky little figure could tug back on his trailing mullet and pull him out from the bubble of bravado he had forged around himself. 

Back then it was a fight. He would fight back, drinks out and guns blazing against the intrusive ghost of a pathetic boy he thought he had been.

It had seemed an eternity since the runt with the thick glasses, and the bangs that rendered them useless, had said goodbye all the way in 1979, and John had sauntered through forever.

And he only looked forward, and only looked back through the eyes of John. Nigel was all but a figment of the past.

But then the years passed, and it got harder to shove the boy away. He couldn’t kid himself forever. He just couldn’t keep the door bolted shut when that youthful hand had raised itself up to the knocker. 

Heading into the turn of the century, he had swallowed his fear and pride, and opened the door to the boy, flooding him with what he had kept away from himself for so long. 

Nearly two decades on, it got easier to let the idea of Nigel settle, as time worked its ticking hands on the pain, heartache and the drug-induced gaps in memory that had plagued John.

Each year, the haze of John's struggle while Nigel warily watched on inched further away, ushered along by the clock.

It was easier now. Different now.

He... he embraced Nigel now.

In a quiet world, centered around his figure bowed above his box of photographs.

John was still John for eternity, but the small smile now crept up to his lips whenever the little creature on that film came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder, and shyly waved a small, timid hello. 

He smiled and waved back.

John finally, in his late fifties, was thankful for where Nigel had gotten him. 

The life in those pictures surely felt real now, and he could feel Nigel sat opposite him staring goggle-eyed over the polaroids below, a dash of disbelief and terror flashing past his face at the rough ride that awaited him.

John leant forward and squeezed the bony shoulders.

He reassured those innocent, awed and bespectacled eyes that it was all going to go to plan.

That it was all going to be amazing... and of course, that it was all going to be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been watching a lot of relatively recent interviews of John talking about being closer to being the boy Nigel had wanted to be lately, than he ever had been. 💜🖤 Wanted to salute his growth over all these years.


	5. Passing Glimmer, Warm Beneath Your Skin

**Prompt 6:** Rio Era

 **Pairing** : John/Roger 

\----

_**Melbourne, Australia** _

_**1982** _

It was true that this place pulled him, even more so than Sydney, and given an opportunity to live here, he would truthfully take it.

The wooden shorewalk railing nearly splintered him as he brushed his hand along it. Weathered by sea breeze and sea salt, the little bumps were the only sensation he felt against the balminess of the barely-there early autumn headwinds.

Leftover summer refusing to let go of its hold.

The goosebumps along his arms rose traitorously though, calling for their usual spring at this time of the year. 

Friendly beachgoers welcomed him down at the ‘milk bar’ down further up the path, though why ever the hell they called it that when it sold no milk was beyond him.

But he didn’t mind. There were splendid Caramellos. Splendid ice-cream. And splendid bikini-clad girls that often visited the shop who loved to eat them. 

He could definitely get used to it. 

Waves crashed louder against the twiggy mangrove bushes, shaking him out of his fantasy down under.

Seafoam scattered toward him as he walked off the path and onto the shore, shoes off, sand washing his feet as he spied a dark shape right on the churning water’s edge. 

_Roger?_

All the other boys had headed back to their hotel, he saw. Three, minus one. 

Of course it was Roger. It was always Roger. 

His footsteps were lost to the melting sand as he made his way toward him. Standing - head scanning the endless southern horizon, smallness accentuated against the vast unlit sea as the sun said its goodbye. 

Closer to him, John saw the tattered blue t-shirt he wore fluttering in the wind, hair rustling along while he contemplated, and contemplated. 

_What’s in that mind of yours, Froggy?_

Stepping up to the man along the edge of the sea he made a small cough of acknowledgment so as not to scare him. He turned, nodded, and looked back out.

"Hi." 

“Hiya. Whatcha doing out here?” John slipped his arms around the other man, holding the warmth of that back close to him and lowering his head to nest his chin comfortably on that shoulder. The taller man swore he could feel the smile. 

“Not much. Just some fresh air.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Aus-tralia.” 

Currents ahead of them still held onto the last ray of the day’s sun, while the streetlamp on the bike path behind them had now turned on, washing faint, warm, fluorescence over them.

“Yeah.” his voice faded, breath taken by the horizon, while he leaned sideways into John’s curls.

Loudly, the sea swept through their shared silence.

John revelled in the newness of every town, city or country their fleet-footed band strode past, and he knew at times Roger felt much the same. Though at others, the endless mobility was exactly what left the drummer with the melancholic, incurable acid taste in his mouth.

“...Everything alright?” _What was the use, expecting a real answer?_

“Yeah,” more fading breaths, “...just trying to escape a little.” 

_Escape what?_ Silence.

“It’s nothing really,” came a mutter, answering John’s signals as per usual, “...just... home. Don’t worry about me, John, I’m... fine.”

_No you’re_ _not_. More silence.

“We’ll be back home soon, you know.” his hands fumbled for Roger’s, sandy grit greeting him, stuck to the seawater on the other man’s hands from some time before.

“Yeah..."

John could feel the sigh reverberate through his chest, the worry flitting its usual flutter. Spreading around and hurting the both of them. 

He turned Roger around, so they could embrace properly, and his lips slipped to the other man’s earlobe in a tentative nip that let him know of the infinite number of ways that he loved him.

And the infinite number of ways he would continue to love him. 

They both looked out to the sea, a thousand things in John’s mind and a thousand things in Roger’s. 

Liquid sadness swirled in those heavy eyes when John looked back toward him, reminding him that it truly was Roger. It was Roger that he had locked softly in his hold. It was Roger that had allowed him. Over a few months in the making, but the reminder was still fresh. 

Fresher again it became, when John closed his eyes and pressed his lips down to the other pair that instinctively reached up to meet his.

Another press, and another.

A buzz let off in his heart, when came the sensation of Roger's hands as they drifted up to hold on, keeping him there and drawing out the kiss that little bit longer.

Mutual, synchronised parting followed afterward. Their chests sank and rose with their small, quieter breaths. But still, that liquid sadness stayed. John would press for more.

"Do you want to come to my room tonight?" concern lined his eyes, wide, brown, and all the more shattered.

"Yes." came the soft reply, almost inaudible, but very much there. Very much a plea.

_Help._ It really said. 

And it was right there. The lonely cry of help, threatened to get lost in the night. Woven through the unspoken invitation to let John in. 

Into his homesickness. Into his freefall. Into his nightmare.

_I'll join you, and you won't ever be alone._

With his bold promise came the hand that slid across the skin under the cotton, and the mouth that again softly sought Roger's, promising company. 

The forehead that touched the other man's, and the large, roughened, hands that held his shoulders tight, shielding him against the sudden gusty southerly that now blew past them, fiercely off the Bass Strait. Protecting him, in any way that he could. 

The worried wrinkles around the eyes, the throbbing strangled noise his heart made at the dark shadow that flitted between the smaller man's lost gaze. 

_I've got you, Rog. I've got you._


	6. My Rosy Arcana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do know it's now May. Whoopty-doo, I'll still have fun with this!
> 
> First time touching on the Arcadia era! ❤️

**Prompt 7:** Nick and makeup

 **Pairing:** Nick/Simon

\----

 **_1985_ **

“Which one would you like?” he gestured to the three shades of grey.

_Grey, dark grey, and even darker grey. Dry Sri Lankan elephant, or wet Sri Lankan elephant._

He couldn’t see any difference, but he wasn’t going to risk sending the other man into colour theory mode - “ _no, it’s charcoal, Charlie. And the other one’s slate. And ash._ ” “ _What’s the theme? A bloody geology lesson?_ ” _“Stop moving.”_ \- while he was sat atop him like this.

Knees on either side, sinking into the sofa. 

Just _straddling_ him. 

More loving than sexual though.

Trust the man to hold a makeup session like this.

Still, couldn’t deny the tights getting tighter.

They were quite the way through now anyway: up to Nick’s favourite part, or palette he should say. The look, that in the future, would come to the forefront of people's minds whenever “Nick Rhodes” was mentioned in tandem with “1985”.

Aware of the palettes resting on the navy plush to his left, Nick shifted his leg. The jet black silk pyjamas that he decided to wear on this night draped smoothly over Simon’s thighs, decked in tight black themselves.

Posterchild of all silky things, Nick’s hair was teased magically, with the shiniest black on full display, but it was his face that kept Simon’s heart up. 

Devoid of makeup, his controlled, but undeniable excitement was evident. 

His hand was soft and sharp as he dipped the fingertip into the middle grey, or _slate,_ as decided by Simon and nimbly brought it up to Simon’s face. 

It took the man all his willpower not to break into a huge grin when Nick leaned close, bow lips in a small pout and brow furrowed in full concentration.

Tenderly, he smudged it out on the already prepared eyelids, soft strokes blending the colour out in their caress. Smoothly, a satisfied smile spread at the sight of Simon’s own, eyes smiling too at the other man’s touch.

“Adding some of the other greys to blend, okay?” Simon could only nod, humming happily as Nick applied the look he loved. 

“And now the liner. Stay still or I’ll jab your eye out,” he went on so seriously that Simon nearly pitched forward laughing and fell victim to just that. 

A few more snorts as the pencil made its vivid streak, leaving those bright blues outlined and popping right back at Nick when he finished.

He leaned back to survey his work, before hovering right back in to add the touches he had missed earlier. 

The finishing bit: gloss in Nick’s own trademark pink lemonade, firmly painted on Simon’s lips while he held his chin steady. Such a lovely feel of that small, but strong, cupping hand. 

“And… there! Looks quite done!” Nick beamed, overly happy, tilting his head as he took the step back from the metaphorical bench. 

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Really not even a...” he dramatically knitted his brows in mimicry and stuck his neck forward, rubbing imaginary eyeshadow on the other man’s eyelids, “...little speck or two?”

Nick whacked him smartly on the arm, narrowing his eyes.

Simon snickered, quieting as the warm simmered around them, fondness and a little something else in those green saucer eyes that looked him over. 

“You do look quite beautiful now, you know.” he regarded Simon fondly with a brush of his grey-stained finger on his cheek, ever so pleased with his work.

“So I didn’t look beautiful before?” Simon cocked his head defensively.

“Fuck off… you _know_ what I meant...” he buried his head onto the other man’s neck, slowly breaking into a small smile with his air shifting,

_Coming, coming, coming,_

“...you know, Simon, it does make me want to kiss you.” he breathed out, almost inaudible. 

_Sold!_

Simon smirked through the black mane. His own thoughts weren’t far out the gutter, and it was fun to see Nick melting against him after his paint job.

“Like you hadn’t beforehand.” 

Nick made a noise of acknowledgement.

“Won’t it ruin the lipstick though?” Simon teased again.

“Do I look like I care?”

“Not sure. I can’t see your face.”

Nick rose back up, rolling his eyes, face equal parts irked and coy.

“There. Now can you?”

“Yeah with that face, I don’t think you do.”

All he got was Nick pulling him up in reply, joining their lips together. 

Quickly it deepened, both eager to share what was now Simon’s colours between them, for Nick to familiarise himself with that old pretty pink friend. 

He only needed to push himself forward on the settee, chest right on Simon’s while their hands began to embark on their instinctual roam. 

Up the back, down the back, into the hair, slide across the neck.

Silk was heaven under Simon's fingers and the burning skin under the cotton was heaven to Nick's.

So familiar, but it was so captivating to be able to touch and feel what was theirs. 

It awakened something more in Nick, when the taste of chalkiness slid onto his exploring tongue. 

Not from his own mouth.

The inversion of roles. 

It rippled at the back of Nick’s mind, almost perversely, that he found so much appeal in seeing Simon in his place. Aesthetically at least. Simon wore the crown unspokenly reserved for him. Bestowed by Nick himself. 

_He,_ _Nick_ , was the one feeling those rose lips against his. The haze lined eyes he looked so deeply into when they pulled away to catch their breath weren't his own.

They were _Simon’s._

The resulting emotion was akin to a dose of delirium, that Nick quickly sent between them.

Pressing close, bodies flush.

Lips touching, groins touching.

Loving, _and_ sexual now, the double deal. Triple deal, if they counted the new man now all dolled up.

Nick's foot hitting plastic momentarily alerted them back to reality, as he dipped to push the precious palette to safety, leaving them more room for play. 

Simon stopped him short, looking widely into him. Gaze filled with suggestion.

"Bedroom?" his voice was low, in that reserved way it could drop.

The piercing green eyes right back at him told all.

"Strawberry ice cream?" Their go-to for enjoyment. Cold, delicious, and lickable.

“Matches the lips.” the smaller man muttered lowly, voicing the silent agreement.

"Camera?"

Nick reached back to grab the polaroid camera on the coffee table. Naturally, for documenting Simon's getup, amongst other things - a third pair of watching eyes in the sheets.

"Let's go."

But not without a quick, sharp kiss they didn't, feeling it strongly, Nick not eager to part with his art so quickly. 

Rising up and getting on his feet after Nick finally relented, Simon headed off to the kitchen, catching his reflection in the mirror by the television cabinet and stopping short. 

It reeled him, how… beautiful he looked. He hardly applied that word to himself often but there was no other way to describe the softened face peering back at him.

Smoky grace and charm. All at the hands of Nick. Veiling his fresh, tanned and usually bare face with the allure of a mystery. One to be indulged in by both himself and its maker.

An arcana indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I absolutely dig and appreciate it on other people, I haven't touched makeup since I was 7. LOL. 💜🧡
> 
> So thank you lovely @allmywill/Allie, the Arcadia getup expert (you really are!) for giving me tips through these otherwise crazy unknowns!


End file.
